


Like Dancing the Two-Step at the Kentucky Derby

by anthologia



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthologia/pseuds/anthologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You care, Doctor, and that is respected among us. But this-“ he spreads out his hands and raises them to the sky, “-this is ours. As it always has been, as it always will be. We do not mind so much living without the sky, so long as we know it is there. Perhaps, one day, we will move to another planet, or even to space; but that is not today.”</p><p>Bones doesn’t quite snort, doesn’t quite make sarcastic remarks or roll his eyes and retort in anger, but he allows his face to twist in frustration, something cold and hard and angry bubbling within. He considers his words carefully.</p><p>“It’s damn stupid is what it is,” he says, finally.</p><p>This time, Dacros really does smile, sudden and bright. “Be that as it may,” he says, and hefts an icy bottle containing a sampling of the planet’s best alcohol. “I have brought a little something to toast to,– to the future, and damn stupidity.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Dancing the Two-Step at the Kentucky Derby

_There's a smell of stale fear, and it's reeking from our skins._  
 _The drinking never stops because the drinks absolve our sins._  
 _We sit and grow our roots into the floor._  
 _What are we waiting for?_  
 _What are we waiting for?_  


  
The atmosphere is slowly poisoning itself. In four, maybe five months, all the oxygen will be choked out of the planet, and all the inhabitants– stubborn, proud people who refused Starfleet’s offer to move them to a more hospitable planet– will die. They’ve spent the last several decades planning for this eventuality, they say, designed and built underground cities of breathtaking beauty, compact biodomes containing everything they will need to survive. Starfleet sends the _Enterprise_ to assist them in any way possible, offering engineering experts and labor and medical help, anything in their power to ensure the planet’s survival.  
  
Bones has been on the planet for two weeks now, mercilessly denouncing the utter pointlessness of the planet’s decision to chance fate. When not delivering these impromptu speeches, he administers vaccinations against every conceivable illness that could be contracted from the atmosphere or the move underground, suggests improvements for medical facilities, and generally does everything he can to keep their stupid, pigheaded selves from asphyxiating in their own homes.  
  
His medical team is hodgepodge at best. The _Enterprise_ 's staff is scattered around the planet to lend their expertise to as many hospital sites as possible, leaving him with a group of Healers indigenous to the planet. None of them have been adequately trained, due to a local disaster two months ago with the hospital’s air regulation. Most of the city’s Healers were suffocated.  
  
At the moment, he’s sitting on the roof of the hospital, safely enclosed in a dome of clear, airtight material several feet thick. This places him in a prime position to watch what passes for a sunset on this planet, a temporary reddening of the clouds that cover the planet. _Somewhere_ out there are suns, six of them; this sunset represents the twenty-minute period of darkness before the next sun rises. It’s a good time to be melancholy, he thinks.  
  
He’s almost asleep on his feet when he’s joined by Dacros, a clear-eyed young man from one of the lower quarters of the city. He was recruited from his apprenticeship a week ago to help with the preparations, and has since proved himself more than capable of the tasks assigned to him. His footsteps are light, careful, well-accustomed to the gravity of the planet. Bones doesn’t even realize he’s been approached until Dacros clears his throat, a high, melodious sound typical of his species.  
  
“Doctor McCoy,” he says, and Bones turns to face him properly, muscles tensing in preparation to be pushed into action again.  
  
“What is it, son?” he asks.  
  
Dacros sets his feet for balance, inclines his head slightly in the ceremonial show of deference to Bones’ superior age and experience. “It is beautiful,” he says.  
  
“Give me a clear sky any day,” Bones says, already settling back into his relaxed posture of moments before. “I’ve seen sunsets you wouldn’t believe.”  
  
“As have I.” Dacros sighs, a curious mixture of regret and amusement. “You do not understand why we stay.”  
  
“No,” he says, honest and open. “I don’t. For all we know, all the calculations in the world couldn’t accurately predict when your atmosphere’s going to blow. Some little decimal mistake could mean you don’t finish relocating in time and the whole damn planet goes to hell.”  
  
The young doctor glances at him sideways, lips twitching upwards into something _almost_ a smile. “You care, Doctor, and that is respected among us. But this-“ he spreads out his hands and raises them to the sky, “- _this_ is ours. As it always has been, as it always will be. We do not mind so much living without the sky, so long as we know it is there. Perhaps, one day, we will move to another planet, or even to space; but that is not today.”  
  
Bones doesn’t quite snort, doesn’t quite make sarcastic remarks or roll his eyes and retort in anger, but he allows his face to twist in frustration, something cold and hard and _angry_ bubbling within. He considers his words carefully.  
  
“It’s damn stupid is what it is,” he says, finally.  
  
This time, Dacros really _does_ smile, sudden and bright. “Be that as it may,” he says, and hefts an icy bottle containing a sampling of the planet’s best alcohol. “I have brought a little something to toast to,– to the future, and damn stupidity.”  
  
Bones finds himself returning the grin, slowly but surely. “ _Now_ you’re talking.”

 

* * *

  
  
A fortnight passes, then two. All things must come to an end, and Starfleet’s flagship is too important to spend all its time helping a planet prepare for a disaster, no matter how urgent– politically and humanely– the cause. Another starship arrives to relieve them, full of fresh faces and ideas, and Bones has nearly finished packing the last of his personal effects when he hears a footstep behind him and nearly drops his medkit.  
  
“I apologise,” Dacros says, and damned if Bones can’t _hear_ his amusement in the tug of vowels against consonants.  
  
“I’ll never get used to that,” he says. “The whole damn planet’s full of ghosts.” He shakes his head, once again, at the way the universe seems to gang up to annoy him, personally. Before he can return to packing up, Dacros has laid a hand on his, the gesture surprisingly gentle and intimate. Bones draws his gaze up to meet Dacros’s, a question in his eyes.  
  
“Do you really think so badly of us?” Dacros asks, voice almost soft enough to be lost in the background noise of the air filtration system.  
  
Bones jerks his head, startled. “Of course not.”  
  
Dacros inclines his head gravely, skims his hand over Bones’ before resting it on the sleeve of his blue medical tunic. “It is as I thought,” he replies, with a little pleased nod of his head. “You are frustrated by what you do not understand because it is more _difficult_ to- to know what to do, how to _fix_ things.”  
  
Bones feels a retort on his tongue, ready to spill out, but swallows it before it can spin out and do any damage. He laughs ruefully, shoulders settled into something a little tired and resigned. “Say,” he says, “your species isn’t a little empathic, is it?”  
  
Dacros shifts weight to the balls of his feet, closing the distance in the two men’s heights until his mouth is inches from McCoy’s. “Only,” he replies, eyes twinkling with some unshared joke, “with our chosen mates.” He holds the position for a moment before bursting into merry, bell-like laughter.  
  
Bones releases a breath he hadn’t been quite aware of holding and makes no effort to conceal his annoyance. “That wasn’t funny.”  
  
“No, indeed,” Dacros says, “by the standards of our culture, _that_ was neither funny nor a joke. By yours, I think, it would be quite amusing; to your captain, in particular, if what you have told me of him is true.” Dacros steps back, out of Bones’ personal space. “But nevertheless–“  
  
Spock’s voice cut into the moment, bringing Bones’ attention back into focus. “ _Enterprise to Dr. McCoy. Are you prepared for beam-up?_ ”  
  
“–Nevertheless,” Dacros continues, “your place is on your ship, with your ship’s people, who are waiting on you.”  
  
Bones shakes his head once more, possibly to remove himself from the whole damn concept of humor, and flips open his communicator. “This is McCoy. I’m ready to come home.”  
  
 _“Very well.”_  
  
As Bones’ atoms are caught and disassembled for transportation through fog and space, his ears _almost_ catch the impression of speech, a parting comment from Dacros.  
  
“Also,” he is saying, thoughtfully, “by Vulcan standards, I think, it would be _most_ unamusing indeed.” 


End file.
